


The Wild Hunt

by aa_fic



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Halloween, M/M, Mystery, Romance, Samhain, Suspense, Wild Hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-26
Updated: 2012-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-17 01:58:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/546386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aa_fic/pseuds/aa_fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every year on Samhain, the Wild Hunt terrorises the small Welsh town of Camford. A year after his own father is killed by the Hunt, Arthur is asked to lead a party against it. Merlin Emrys, the ailing recluse who alone escaped the Hunt in the past, may hold the key to Arthur's success in defeating it—or he may be the leader of the Wild Hunt himself. Mystery/suspense, supernatural, Samhain/Halloween, dark romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Fest:** Written for the Merlin Horror fest, prompt 37  
>  **Non-spoiler Warning:** In spirit, this is closer to gothic fiction than to a contemporary horror/gore film. It is, of course, a darker themed fic, with violence, blood, and death. If you have concerns, read the full list of warnings.  
>  **Spoiler Warnings** : Please see end of work for full list of warnings.  
>  **Notes:** Thank you to magnolia822 for beta'ing, ememmyem for Brit picking, geekslave for pre-reading and giving this a final lookover, and mushroomtale for pre-reading and creating the gorgeous art. Thank you to the prompter for such a rich and inspiring idea; the fic ended up taking on a life of its own, but I think you'll recognize much of your prompt here.
> 
> [Art](http://mushroomtale.livejournal.com/67595.html) by mushroomtale (spoilers)

CARYS TURNED BACK to where Terrwyn, whose raven hair matched the swirling robes of her sorceress costume, stood giggling at the edge of the forest. Their father said that Terrwyn resembled a little Morgana, the sorceress from legend, and never more so than tonight.  
  
  
"I don't know what you're frightened of!" Carys taunted. She'd always been braver than her sister, although as the eldest that was only natural. She'd actually _punched_  that bully Idris when he'd stolen Terrwyn's books at school, and she'd taken the blame when their father had criticised Terrwyn for forgetting to fold the clothes. Now she would just have to prove to Terrwyn that the stupid stories their father had been telling them about ghost riders terrorising the countryside on Samhain were just that—stupid stories.  _When bad little girls stay out too late on Samhain, the demons of the Wild Hunt will chase them down and abduct them, turning them into Hunters, too._  Carys was nearly eleven and had no intention of falling for that sort of ridiculous tactic anymore.  
  
Still, as she edged deeper into woods so dark she could see no more than two feet in front of her, she felt a little afraid, but only a little. She was not frightened of the 'Wild Hunt', but of something less easily defined; an owl ready to plunge from a tree might startle her, a pack of wolves could tear her to shreds, or a deranged man might be lurking outside the village waiting to abduct young victims just like her. Such dangers, she knew, were the real reason parents told their children stories about the Wild Hunt.  
  
"Are you coming?" Carys called back, but she heard no response from her sister. The woods had swallowed Carys whole, and she was alone. She tried again. "Don't tell me you've run back to dad!" The silence grew unnatural, and for a moment, she wondered if Terrwyn had been carried off and Carys alone was safe. A gust of air blew over her face, but the trees were still. "Terrwyn?"  
  
It sounded like the earth cracking open. The silence gave way to the roar of inhuman shrieking and the sound of galloping hooves so thunderous Carys could feel it vibrate through her body, giving her the momentary sensation that she was in a movie theatre with her eyes squeezed shut. But this, she realised as an unearthly legion illuminated by torches charged towards her, was horribly, terrifyingly, undeniably real.  
  
As the hunters rode, the light from one of the torches caught on the hideous countenance of the huntsman in the front of the pack. His face, which might have been beautiful once, was twisted with evil, and youthfulness clashed with a grim determination upon it. The dark hair that fell across his forehead made his gaunt cheeks appear even more hollow, and his entire form had wasted away to a skeletal frame. In one arm he held a black hound. He called out to the others, who answered his orders with a roar, and she saw their eyes gleam through the darkness, a thousand points of light.  
  
Carys screamed.


	2. The Wild Hunt

"AFTERNOON, ARTHUR. LOVELY day for October, isn't it? It's been so rainy this year." Terrwyn swept past, the rich burgundy of her dress masking the humbleness of the material.  
  
"Finally! It's surely the last nice day we'll see this year, what with Samhain just around the corner," agreed Arthur, nodding his head at her as he leaned against the _Pendragon and Sons, Guns and Tackle_  shop front. It was a slow day for business, but then, every day was a slow day for business in Camford, a town with a population of 800 people who'd known each other their entire lives. Still, while little profit was to be made, the living was cheap. The Pendragons had occupied the floor above the shop for generations, and Arthur's father had finished renovating it just before he'd passed on, leaving Arthur in relative comfort with few bills to pay. He worked and saved, and every month like his father before him, Arthur took his most well-made rifles to the county fairs, where a wealthier clientele would purchase them for sport. And if he had a slow week—which was often—there was always someone around to buy him a pint at The Chalice tavern.  
  
"Hey, soldier, how about a quick game of cards?"  
  
Idris, the town lout and Arthur's best friend, twirled the stem of a flower between his teeth and winked at him. He wore a tight-fitting pullover, below which the distinct outline of well-cut muscles was visible.  
  
"Actions have consequences," Arthur warned, his voice light. "Don't flirt unless you mean it."  
  
"Hey, who's flirting, you cocky wanker? Always so sure of yourself. Trust me, if I was flirting, you'd know it."  
  
Idris wasn't exaggerating. Arthur still remembered the night Idris had drunk one too many pints and thrown himself at him, and the weird, desperate, but not altogether unpleasant groping that had followed. His red-faced friend had apologised the next day, having concluded that he was definitively, tragically straight, and Arthur, who'd enjoyed himself but was by no means enamoured by Idris' jovial if occasionally ridiculous personality, forgave his friend and had been grateful when everything had returned to normal.  
  
Arthur smiled. "Maybe just one game of cards. But come on inside, or half the town will think I'm a worthless degenerate, gambling with you instead of selling my wares."  
  
"You  _are_  a worthless degenerate," Idris informed him, slapping a large hand on Arthur's shoulder and shoving him inside past the counter to the storage room in the back. "Lucky for you, I am, too."  
  
"What a relief." Arthur sat down heavily at a rickety table, the top stained with dark rings from pint glasses enjoyed over countless nights, and started dealing the cards, which were always there at the ready.  
  
"Did you see the match last night?" Idris, still twirling the flower between his teeth, asked as he inspected the hand he'd been dealt.  
  
"What a shitfest. I'm ashamed to call myself a Camfordman."  
  
Idris tucked a curl of hair behind one ear and screwed his handsome face into an indignant expression. "I'd never let Johnson get away with those kinds of moves. If I'd gone to uni, I would have made it professional for sure."  
  
"Of course, of course," Arthur agreed, thinking to himself how entirely he could kick Idris' arse at football.  
  
"Why, I would've sent him straight back to Manchester begging for his mam to…"  
  
The bell in the front of the shop rang, interrupting Idris' bragging. "Hello? Is there anyone working here?"  
  
Arthur sprang out of his seat, surprised at hearing the voice of a customer in the shop. He hastened to the front, clasping his hands together. "Hello, hello, yes, how can I help you?" he asked.  
  
He recognised the man at once. Arthur experienced a peculiar sense of foreboding as he gazed at Merlin Emrys, an odd fellow who'd moved to Camford some years ago. His accent was like none that Arthur had ever heard, and some speculated that he had come from Yorkshire, while others believed he'd emigrated from France. That Emrys lived alone just beyond the boundaries of the town in the old Uthert Manor, the enormous but weathered estate that reminded Arthur of a fortress more than a home, only deepened the town's curiosity.  
  
When Arthur was a child and Uthert Manor was still without tenants, he and his friends would dare each other to sneak inside the crumbling walls. Even now he could remember the dread that had assailed him when he'd gotten up the courage to creep inside. It had been like walking into a place frozen in time; ancient chairs resembling thrones stood in high-ceilinged halls as if their owners had simply walked out and relinquished the manor to the cobwebs and birds that had since infested it. Cold stone walls and floors cooled the rooms into a perpetual state of winter. Arthur tried to imagine Emrys restoring the manor into the warm, vibrant home it may have once been and found he could not.  
  
Indeed, the man brought with him the same gloomy sensation Arthur had felt at the manor as a child. Even the little shop seemed to plummet into darkness with the man's presence, and when Arthur glanced up from Emrys' face to look outside, he discovered that the sky had darkened unnaturally so that the afternoon appeared almost evening.  
  
"Storm's coming," he commented, either to make conversation with the sour-looking man or to reassure himself that he wasn't in the midst of a real life nightmare.  
  
Confusion flashed across Emrys' face. "Hmm?" He appeared so distracted Arthur wondered if he even noticed what was happening in the world around him.  
  
"The sky. Looks like it might rain," he clarified, putting his hands on the counter to keep them from shaking. He was a grown man, and grown men were not frightened of childish notions about strangers, no matter how haunted the man's eyes might be.  
  
Emrys twisted his head to the window out of courtesy, but barely glanced outside. "Yes." Then his gaze was back on Arthur, unyielding. As if waiting for a cue, Emrys made no further move to clarify why he had wandered in the shop.  
  
"Arthur, everything all right?" Idris' voice sounded from behind him.  
  
Grateful for the presence of someone else in the room, a bit of tension drained from Arthur's shoulders, and he laughed at himself. Idris' voice had disrupted his absurd delusion that Emrys was some kind of creature from hell who had wandered into his shop to capture his soul. "Yes, fine. Mr. Emrys has just arrived to look at… what, exactly, were you interested in purchasing?" The conversation that had threatened to turn uncomfortable resumed a boring, everyday tone.  
  
Emrys flashed his eyes to Idris' face before returning them to rest again on Arthur. "I'm looking for a sword."  
  
"A sword? You can't be serious, mate." Idris stuck his hands in his pocket and rocked back on his heels, giving Emrys an assessing onceover.  
  
This time, Emrys didn't even acknowledge he was there. "It's an old one," he continued as he walked by a case containing relics the Pendragons had been collecting for generations. He pressed a palm against the glass and peered at a silver dagger with empty holes where precious stones had once sat. "I've been looking for it for some time, and I have reason to believe it's here."  
  
Arthur cleared his throat. "I do have a small sword collection in the back, but I rarely sell anything from it. I'm mainly in the business of rifles and tackle, which are far more useful these days. Might I show you some of our better items?"  
  
Emrys looked at him as if he were obtuse. "I'm not interested in rifles," he returned in a clipped tone. "I'd like to see the swords, please."  
  
"We don't usually…"  
  
"I can pay a substantial sum," Emrys cut him off.  
  
The Pendragon sword collection in the back room had not seen the light of day for at least ten years. There was simply no reason to unlock the door. Swords were all but useless, and his father had lectured him throughout his childhood about the Pendragon family's role as preservationists of the old weapons.  _You're not to sell them, Arthur. We are guardians only. The swords are part of Camford's legacy._  
  
But that legacy had already been compromised when his father had disappeared last Samhain without a trace. Arthur shuddered, remembering how he'd felt when dawn had broken without the return of his father, who had been chosen to lead the Opposition against the Wild Hunt. It was said that on Samhain, when the veil between the worlds was most fragile, a band of demons traversed the countryside on horseback, abducting anyone foolish enough to be out of doors. At their head rode the Huntsman, a fearsome shade whom many believed had been a powerful sorcerer in life. Others whispered that the Huntsman was a fallen king who'd traded his humanity for immortality, doomed to roam the earth hunting more souls for the darkness. Arthur's father had scoffed at such stories, but in spite of his reassurances otherwise, the elder Pendragon had never made it back, the legacy behind the family swords lost with him.  
  
Idris' laugh brought Arthur out of his reverie. "What's a bloke like you going to do with a sword anyway? Spear a rabbit?"  
  
Emrys continued to stare at Arthur as if Idris didn't exist. Arthur discovered himself sweating. A look at the swords, Arthur mused, wouldn't hurt. "Follow me."  
  
He led Emrys through the room where the cards from the game were still strewn about the table, toward a heavy door at the very back of the shop. The keys jangled in the silence as he worked the complicated locks and swung the door open. Arthur brushed his hand along the wall until he found the light switch and illuminated a half-dozen swords shining out from behind glass cases.  
  
"Here they are." Arthur folded his arms across his chest and stood back to allow Emrys to pass. Emrys, visibly impressed, exhaled a long breath as he inspected the swords. It was the first time Arthur had ever seen him exhibit something like human emotion.  
  
"This one," Emrys said with resolution, pointing at an old sword whose tarnished metal bespoke of ancient battles followed by years of neglect. Arthur thought he saw a gleam in Emrys' eyes, the first hint of a fervour, when he pressed his face against the glass. "How much?"  
  
Arthur hesitated. "I told you, I'm not selling."  
  
"You don't understand. I…" Emrys trailed off and cocked his head to one side, making him seem almost boyish.  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
Avoiding his eyes, Emrys drew a piece of paper from his pocket and scribbled something on it, considered a moment, and then handed it to Arthur, who almost fainted when he saw the number written there. Before Arthur could gather his wits enough to formulate a response, the paper was snatched from his hand.  
  
" _A million?_ " gasped Idris, who had snuck up behind them, ever nosy. "For a bloody useless old sword? Arthur!"  
  
Arthur looked at him helplessly and shrugged. "But I promised."  
  
"Your father couldn’t have known you would get an offer like this. Arthur…" Idris grabbed Arthur's arm and pulled him away from the store room to give them a moment's privacy. His expression was more serious than Arthur had ever seen it as he leaned in close, keeping his voice low so Emrys wouldn't overhear. "Look, Arthur. I know you're getting along all right here with the shop and all, but even I can see it's not enough. With this money, you wouldn't have to worry about how much you were selling—you wouldn't have to travel so often. If you wanted, you could renovate this whole place, invest in top of the line rifles, turn Pendragon and Sons into the most renowned weapon shop in Wales! I'm sure your father meant well, but he's gone now, and you've to fend for yourself. Don't cock this one up."  
  
Arthur glanced over his shoulder to see Emrys still in the store room inspecting the sword, out of hearing range. "Do you think he's even serious? Does he have enough money for this?"  
  
"Who knows! The bloke's a strange one, but it's obvious he's loaded. He bought Uthert Manor for Christ's sake!"  
  
Idris was starting to sweat, the paper with Emrys' offer turning damp where he was clutching it in his hand. Maybe Idris was right. Another opportunity like this wouldn't come again. Arthur realised he was biting his lip.  
  
"Fuck, ok," Arthur agreed on impulse.  
  
"Ok?" Idris looked surprised, like he hadn’t expected Arthur to cave in so easily.  
  
"Ok," Arthur repeated as a smile crept onto his face. Adrenaline pumped through his body. He would be freed from worry about paying his next bills, all thanks to some old family heirlooms to which he barely paid attention anyway.  
  
Emrys was tracing a finger along the glass when Arthur returned to the store room. Watching him, Arthur asked himself what was so special about this sword that it would make a man as undemonstrative as Emrys behave like this. But then he felt the tip of Idris' finger prod into the small of his back. "Go on then."  
  
Arthur cleared his throat, his heart pounding. He extended his hand to Emrys. "You've got a deal."  
  
As Emrys clasped his hand, a wildness swept across his eyes that reminded Arthur of the terror on the faces of the townspeople just before Samhain. Arthur wondered if he'd made an unwise bargain, and if there would be consequences he could not foresee.  
  
\---  
  
"EVENING, FRIENDS! NEXT round's on Arthur, right, mate?" Idris offered as he hauled a stool to the table where Terrwyn and Arthur were sitting at The Chalice tavern. "He's just made a fortune."  
  
Arthur sighed. "Thanks, Idris. Feel free to promise everyone I'll pay their rent, too if you could, and let them know whom I slept with last week, while you're spreading the gossip."  
  
"Aw, Arthur, I would never tell them about us." Idris winked and clapped him on the shoulder. "Always so uptight. Today was a big day for you. Let's celebrate!"  
  
"Wait, what's going on? What's happened?" Terrwyn asked, leaning forward in anticipation. "Did you discover that your father left you a ridiculously large inheritance after all?" She giggled and sipped the last of her beer, already a bit tipsy.  
  
"Drinks first, shop talk second!" announced Idris as he dragged Arthur to the bar, where the barkeeper was wiping some glasses clean. "We need a fresh round, Bledri. And only the best this time. Arthur's a rich man now."  
  
"I won't be rich for long with the way you keep at it," Arthur admonished.  
  
Terrwyn was drumming her fingers impatiently when they returned. "All right, out with it," she said. "You've kept us in suspense long enough."  
  
"It's nothing too exciting…" Arthur started.  
  
"Arthur sold a ratty old sword to that dodgy-looking Emrys bloke for a mil!" Idris cut in. "Can you believe it? And now he has no idea what to do with all the money, so he's agreed to let us help him spend it."  
  
"You made a million?" shouted Terrwyn, leaping up in surprise and causing half the bar to peer over at them in curiosity.  
  
There was no stopping what happened next. Nearby townspeople, as eager for news as hawks for food, descended on Arthur's table with congratulations and questions. Even Bledri abandoned his place behind the bar to find out more from Arthur, who blushed and laughed, overwhelmed with it all. When the impromptu crowd dissipated, Terrwyn asked, "So what  _are_  you going to do with the money?"  
  
For once Idris was silent, and Arthur mulled over his beer. "Dunno. Suppose I'll invest in some vintage rifles, maybe expand the business that way? It's what I've always wanted."  
  
"That's great, Arthur. I'm happy for you. Cheers." Terrwyn held up her pint, and the sound of glasses clinking joined the merry hubbub of the tavern. "Wow, a million. I wonder what that old creep wanted with the sword."  
  
"Who cares as long as he delivers on the money, right, mate?" Idris asked.  
  
"It is strange," Arthur murmured, remembering the eeriness that had seemed to invade the shop along with Emrys. "Maybe there's more going on with him than we know about."  
  
"Nah, you've seen where he lives. He probably just sits in the dark in Uthert Manor staring at a bunch of old shit and getting himself off to it. Man's a freak. If he wants to pay good old Arthur here a fortune to add to his wank, I say he's more than welcome." Idris downed the rest of his beer.  
  
"That's the stupidest thing I ever heard," said Terrwyn. "Arthur's right. There's something strange about the whole thing. Makes me think of… Did you ever hear the rumour that Emrys survived the Hunt?"  
  
"That's a load of bollocks. No one escapes the Hunt," said Arthur.  
  
Idris scoffed. "The stories about the Wild Hunt are what's bollocks. If people disappear on Samhain, it's because the tales provide a great cover for running off, or for murder. It's not some demon on a horse with his merry band of nightmare friends who spirits them away, you know."  
  
" _I saw them_. Carys, remember?" Terrwyn was visibly shaken, staring at the dark wood of the table.  
  
"I know, love." Idris paused, Terrwyn's distress turning him serious. "But you were a girl then, and it was Samhain, and you were in the woods alone at night. Believe me, none of us will ever forget when that happened. But that doesn't mean Carys was kidnapped by a supernatural army, although I don't wonder why you saw it that way, what with how terrified those stories have made the children in this town."  
  
"You weren't there," said Terrwyn. "I know what I saw."  
  
Arthur wrapped an arm around her shoulders to comfort her. "What about my father, then? What about the people who disappear  _every year_? And not just here, but in villages all over Wales. The Wild Hunt is real, Idris, whether you want to believe in it or not. And I don't see you making any pilgrimages to the woods on Samhain."  
  
"Why in God's name would I go into the woods on Samhain? There's a bunch of freaks and murderers just waiting to rob you and slit your throats for the pleasure. They'll get away with it too, thanks to this fairy tale of the Wild Hunt."  
  
"Well I believe it," said Arthur. "My father thought the Hunt was bollocks, too, and look what happened to him." Arthur had begged his father not to go, but he hadn't listened, feeling it his duty to expose the lie of the Wild Hunt and bring the real thugs to justice. The last time they'd spoken had been an argument.  
  
"Your father was a hero," said Terrwyn, placing a hand on Arthur's wrist. "As is every man who has made an attempt to rid us of the hunters and died trying."  
  
Idris rolled his eyes, but he kept his mouth clamped tight.  
  
"Every man except Emrys," a voice murmured behind Arthur. Bledri's long white hair grazed Arthur's shoulder as he reached over him to collect the empty glasses from the table. " _He_  survived the Hunt." The barkeeper gave Arthur a pointed look before he retreated, continuing to watch them with interest from behind the counter.  
  
"He's right. Emrys walked out of those woods alive the morning after. It's impossible! Whatever some people may say, Emrys couldn't have been in there trying to destroy the Hunt. Maybe he's even one of the riders himself," whispered Terrwyn conspiratorially.  
  
"Emrys is strange, but come on, he's no demon." Idris threw up his hands in exasperation.  
  
"Or maybe he used magic to escape," Terrwyn continued. "Mrs. Gibbs believes he's a wizard. She says sometimes people see flashes of light coming from the manor. Plus, he looks like a sorcerer. I've never seen anyone so skinny and sickly looking."  
  
"Well, whatever he is, he's made our friend Arthur here a very rich man. So cheers to Emrys!" Idris said, raising his glass, but the mood had already soured, and no one joined him.  
  
\---  
  
THE CONVERSATION AT the tavern left Arthur with a distinctly unpleasant feeling in his stomach that lingered well into the morning. The gloomy October weather that had greeted him when he'd awoken did nothing to lift his spirits. In a few more days Samhain, the night that had become synonymous for Arthur with terror, would arrive and plunge the entire town into its annual fear-filled preparations. The markets would be overrun by people scurrying for last minute supplies before taking refuge in their homes. The familiar sounds of children's voices and traffic would quiet to an eerie silence. On the doors, people would hang the carcasses of rabbits and other small game in an attempt to appease the Wild Hunt from taking any of the people inside. And every year a few would make the pilgrimage into the woods to try to rid the town of its scourge by means of violence, magic, or foolish audacity.  
  
As Arthur filled a mug with tea and tightened his bathrobe around his waist, he asked himself whether what was bothering him was the approaching Samhain and the still fresh memory of his father's disappearance it kindled, or something more.  
  
The sale of the sword was weighing on him, Arthur admitted as he sat down at the kitchen table and gazed with unseeing eyes at the newspaper. There was something not  _right_  about it, something strange about a man wanting an obscure, old sword enough to pay that much money for it, no matter how valuable. And he felt too that in selling it he had betrayed his father, who'd always taken pride in preserving the family relics.  
  
Especially selling it to someone like Merlin Emrys. The man had a way of making you feel… he wasn't sure, like Emrys could see right into your heart, like he  _knew_ you. Maybe Terrwyn was right, and he was a sorcerer—if Arthur believed in the Wild Hunt, he supposed magic was possible too. Maybe Emrys could read his mind, or had somehow bewitched him into selling what he had sworn he never would.  
  
Perhaps that was silly. The fault lay with him and his own greed. Maybe it wasn't too late to call the whole thing off. Considering that, Arthur eyed the phone, but the thought of hearing Emrys' icy voice on the other end of the line and interacting with the strange man paralysed him.  
  
A crash caused Arthur to jump in his chair. Outside scattered leaves blew through streets absent of people, and a haunting silence weighed in on him. The autumn morning was still dark. He heard what sounded like scratching at the rear of the house, and images of ghostly hounds hunting for unnatural prey formed in his mind. He told himself that the Wild Hunt moved through the town only on Samhain. It was all that talk from last night that was disturbing him, nothing more, he reassured himself. He would go outside and prove it was nothing more than an old rubbish bin being knocked about in the wind.  
  
Nervous, he grabbed an old rifle as a precaution and laughed at himself as he cracked open the front door of the house.  _As if a gun will be any help against demons._  Still, the firm weight of the wood in his hands strengthened his nerves enough that he edged himself outside and made it all the way to the rear of the house before he started to shake. Arthur leaned against the wall with his eyes shut, preparing himself for whatever might follow, poised to run on the instant he found himself faced with a red-eyed ghost on horseback. He paused, took a deep breath, and opened his eyes.  
  
It was just a deer, its nose rustling along the ground near the back wall. Arthur sighed in relief. He was an idiot. Maybe Idris was right after all. The story of the Wild Hunt was nothing more than a pernicious folk superstition that criminals exploited. Maybe that's what had happened to his father, some second-rate thug robbing him and slitting his throat. It wasn't a heroic way to die, but Arthur was past the age where he needed fairy stories to allay his sadness over his father's death. He was a man, and his father would have wanted him to face the truth.  
  
\---  
  
"I'M NOT SURE I believe in the Wild Hunt anymore," Arthur told him when Idris stopped by the shop the next day, "so I perhaps I should lead this year's Opposition."  
  
Bledri from The Chalice tavern had called him earlier that morning to tell him he'd been chosen to take up his father's legacy. He'd said it as if he were inviting Arthur to be the guest of honour at a society ball, his voice full of pride anticipating an enthusiastic response. But Arthur wasn't so sure anymore that there was glory in the town's annual ritual. Instead, there was only duty.  
  
"And what made you change your mind?" Idris asked with a smirk.  
  
"A deer."  
  
"A deer?" Idris repeated, puzzled.  
  
"Never mind. It's just—maybe you're right. This town is so arse backwards in its thinking. I don't need my father to have died a glorious death fighting the Wild Hunt to be proud of who he was. It was just a story I clung to."  
  
"And Terrwyn?"  
  
"It's like you said. She was a little girl who saw something terrible in the dark. Of course she would have interpreted Carys's abduction as something—terrifying." He shuddered imagining the nightmares that must have haunted his friend, how the visions of the culprits would have grown over time until they formed into larger than life monsters.  
  
"Good." Idris paused, considering. "There's definitely someone out in those woods on Samhain, and whoever they are, they have terrorised Camford long enough. We form a search party, and whether it's a bunch of crazy-arsed demons on horseback or refugees from the nearest prison, we take them down. After that, this all ends—the disappearances, the fear, not to mention the disgusting animal carcasses Mrs. Gibbs hangs on my door every year.  _Ugh_.” Idris made a face of disgust.  
  
Arthur laughed. "Yes, that alone is motivation."  
  
"You'll do it, then? And take me along?" Idris asked, hopeful. He always was a sucker for adventure.  
  
Arthur nodded. "We’ll drag those thugs into the centre of town and prove there is no Wild Hunt to fear. No one else needs to go through what I did or see what Terrwyn saw."  
  
"Thank Christ," Idris said in relief. "This shite town needs a leader like you. And your stunning gun collection will certainly come in handy."  
  
"I'm feeling very used," Arthur replied, his lips turning up in a smile.  
  
"Hmm, you'd love that, wouldn't you, mate?" Idris gave him a onceover and bit his lip.  
  
Arthur took special care to avoid egging Idris on and displayed no sign of hearing him. The man was a total prick. "What's our first step?"  
  
"We should talk to your new friend and patron, Emrys. Since he escaped, he might be able to tell us something."  
  
"Provided he's not the demon leader of the hunt himself, that is," Arthur joked.  
  
"Well, if he is,  _that_  would certainly be something." Idris smiled.  
  
\---  
  
BLEDRI WAS PLEASED when Arthur told him that after thinking it over, he had decided to challenge the Hunt that year. The news that Arthur would take up the mantle of his father and carry forward Camford's brave tradition spread rapidly through the small town's gossip chain, and it brought Terrwyn, breathless and wearing a cinched armoured waistband with a fur shawl over her shoulder, straight to his doorstep to volunteer. Over the next hour, people from the town trickled in with similar offers that they sealed with a handshake or a nod. Arthur accepted their help with gratefulness. Whatever was waiting for them in the woods on Samhain would be formidable, and Arthur needed all the help he could get.  
  
Arthur assessed them as they milled about the shop. Terrwyn looked more destructive than he'd anticipated as she tested out a rifle, a cluster of heavily-muscled men joked as they evaluated the potential of the knives on display for sale, and three of the more serious of the lot were discussing strategies in the corner. Idris just lounged by the door twiddling a blade of grass between his teeth, one booted foot resting against the frame.  
  
From the middle of the room, Arthur clapped his hands together to get their attention. "Ok, everyone, listen up. We're going to pay Mr. Emrys a little surprise visit and find out what he knows. Now I want to be civil to him; he's a frail, wealthy man, not a demon or a wizard—at least not until proven otherwise." Arthur allowed himself a quick grin before turning serious again. "Whatever's out there, Emrys has seen it. This may be the only chance we have to get real information, so let's do our best to find out everything he knows. Sound good?"  
  
"Sounds great, Sir Knight Pendragon," Idris answered with a smirk.  
  
Everyone else looked unusually solemn and nodded in agreement, following Arthur out the door. As they marched to Emrys' house, the other villagers tipped their hats to them in recognition of their intentions. If Emrys really was nothing more than a private, sickly man, Arthur pitied him. They must resemble a lynch mob coming up his drive.  
  
Indeed, Emrys looked surprised, a trace of anxiety passing across his face, when he opened the heavy wooden door to greet them. He would almost be handsome, Arthur thought as he regarded the high-cut cheekbones and soft lips of the man in front of him, but for the dark circles around his eyes and the worn look of his skin, like he was suffering from long illness.  
  
But now was not the time for pity. Arthur let it be known they were coming inside, and Emrys did not oppose them, but stepped back from the entrance to let them pass. The foyer was almost as large as Arthur's entire shop, with ceilings that towered above him; yet in spite of the cathedral-like construction, the absence of light made the place feel closed-in and miserable. A spiralling stone stairwell led to an upper floor that was obscured by the darkness. With the thick walls blocking out the sunlight, the air was chilly, and Arthur noticed that Emrys had a heavy shawl draped over his shoulders.  
  
"Well! Isn't this charming," murmured Idris, winning him an irritated look from Arthur and a suppressed giggle from Terrwyn.  
  
"I apologise for imposing like this, Mr. Emrys. Is there somewhere we might go to chat for a bit?" Arthur asked.  
  
"Come this way," Emrys invited, stepping lightly in front of them and heading down a narrow passageway to the left. "The house is so large, and I'm only one person, so I keep most of it shut up. I'm sorry for the cold, but it will be warmer in here." He led them into a comfortable sitting room where the stone walls had been covered over with rich embroidered tapestries, one of which represented a bloody battlefield where two figures, one a king, the other almost a boy, had driven their swords through each other's bodies. It was beautiful but gruesome, Arthur thought, a strange image to adorn a room with.  
  
Emrys, wearing reading glasses and an old grey cardigan under the shawl, looked the scholar as he sat down at a wooden desk buried under papers and books. Was this, then, what Emrys did all day? He was obviously a man of leisure, having enough wealth to buy Uthert Manor and live without labouring. But it must be lonely, Arthur mused, with neither family nor friends. Emrys lived definitively outside of the community at Camford as if he was tolerating the presence of the town like an old lord grown weary of his subjects.  
  
Emrys spoke first. "So what brings you here? Curious about your sword?"  
  
Arthur eyed a book about the history of Celtic magic that lay half-opened on the desk before Emrys shoved a piece of paper over the cover with an elbow. "I am, yes, but that's not why we've come," answered Arthur as he lowered himself onto an ottoman. "We've heard something about you and… the Wild Hunt. That you escaped somehow."  
  
Emrys regarded him with an icy expression, the veneer of the polite host disappearing instantly. "When will the people of this town learn? The Wild Hunt is not something to be meddled with."  
  
"You believe in it, then," said Arthur.  
  
"Of course," snorted Emrys, rising from the desk and drifting over to where the tapestry hung on the wall.  
  
"Because you've seen it?" Terrwyn asked.  
  
Emrys turned and cast Terrwyn a piercing look. "The lost souls who make up the Wild Hunt cannot be killed. They are dead already. The only thing you can do is hide. So follow the example of the simpler people here, and lock your doors and pray. Leave heroics for another occasion."  
  
One of the men, in spite of his intimidating size, shifted uncomfortably by the fireplace.  
  
"Listen, Emrys, my father died in the woods on Samhain. And so did her sister," Arthur told him, pointing to Terrwyn. "If there's any way to confront the Hunt and survive—if you've done it, if you could help us…"  
  
"I can't help you," Emrys cut him off, his head bowed as he faced the wall. "I'm sorry. If I'd known that's why you wanted to talk, I wouldn't have invited you in. Please leave me." His tone had the air of a man, long accustomed to being obeyed, dismissing his servants, but there was something pained in his eyes as he lifted them to Arthur which convinced him that Emrys knew more than he was telling.  
  
"I wish you would reconsider and share your story," said Arthur, getting up to leave, "but if you change your mind—"  
  
"You'll tell us what you know now, you slippery bastard!"  
  
Before Arthur could react, Idris had Emrys pinned against the wall, the front of his shirt balled up in his fist. Emrys, usually implacable, looked frightened for a moment before he took possession of himself, and the expressionless mask slipped back into place.  
  
"You'll kindly release me," he said in a level voice.  
  
"Let him go, Idris," ordered Arthur. While he was merry more often than not, Idris could be a hothead, violently striking out when he felt his friends were threatened, but he usually allowed Arthur to talk him down from his rages.  
  
"No, our lives may depend on his knowledge," one of the men spoke up. "Let Idris finish."  
  
" _Let Idris finish?"_  repeated Arthur in surprise. He was neither a criminal nor a warlord, and he wasn't about to force information from Emrys through violence. "You can’t be serious. Stop now. We're leaving."  
  
Idris responded to the finality in Arthur's voice and slowly backed off, holding Emrys' gaze. "If there's something you're not telling us—and I think there is—you could be responsible for the death of everyone here. Let that weigh on your conscience, if you have one." Idris flipped his hair over his shoulder and stalked out of the room, the others following at his heels.  
  
Even Arthur, starting to become oppressed by the atmosphere in the old manor, was anxious to leave, but not before trying to repair the damage from Idris' insult.  
  
"Sorry about that," said Arthur to Emrys in a voice low enough that it would be not overheard. "But if you change your mind about talking to us, please stop by the shop."  
  
Emrys just nodded.  
  
"I'll see myself out, then."  
  
Arthur didn't wait for a response, but found his way back through the dark passageways until he was safely outside. The fresh air smelled sweet to him.  
  
\---  
  
DURING THE NIGHT Arthur's sleep was tormented by images of ghostly men on horseback flinging arrows into a darkened forest as his father raced between the trees, screaming his name.  
  
The image stayed with him when he woke, bringing with it the question  _what if?_  Arthur promised himself that no other townspeople would die, and if Emrys refused to help them, Arthur would comb the town looking for information on how to best prepare to meet the demonic army. If on the other hand they turned out to be regular men as he suspected, Arthur knew how to dispatch them well enough.  
  
As soon as he had eaten and dressed, he went to the library to seek Gwydion, a wizened old librarian whose lifelong residency in Camford and years pouring over its books had acquainted him with every inch of the town’s history. If anyone would know about the legends of the Wild Hunt and what could be done to defeat them, Gwydion would.  
  
"You're here about the Hunt, aren't you?" Gwydion asked when Arthur knocked on the door of the small office. The librarian was seated behind a large desk copying a passage from a book in long hand. The man was a born librarian; he evoked medieval times at just a glance.  
  
"How'd you know?" Arthur asked, taking the question as an invitation to come in. He moved a stack of books from an old chair and sat down.  
  
"Everyone knows you lot are going into the woods on Samhain to meet the Hunt. You're a bunch of fools," Gwydion murmured as he continued to write, "but brave, too."  
  
"Is it real, the Hunt?" Arthur asked, expecting to at last hear a sane answer from someone as learned as Gwydion. "Or do you think it's just a band of marauders, taking advantage of the people’s fear?"  
  
"My boy," answered Gwydion, giving him a long look, "don't fool yourself. If you're to go into the woods on Samhain, you had best believe in the Hunt, and be prepared to face it."  
  
Arthur’s blood ran cold. Gwydion's conviction unsettled him, and it took him a moment to gather his wits. He cleared his throat. "So you're a believer, then. Do you know anything about how it began? How to stop it?" he asked, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.  
  
Gwydion rose from the desk and began to pace around the room, clasping his hands behind his back. "No one knows its origin for certain. The people tell many stories—some say an ancient king went to the underworld seeking eternal life. I've also heard the Huntsman is a soldier who vied for an ancient throne and failed. And then there are those who say a party of men, brutally killed by the animals they hunted, live on in never-ending pursuit of the beasts."  
  
Arthur gripped his knee in frustration. "These are all just stories. There's nothing here that can help me."  
  
"I'm sorry, Arthur. I wish I could be of more assistance, but if we knew how to destroy the host, we'd have done it long ago, right?"  
  
Arthur thought of his father. He must have believed he knew how to destroy them. "I suppose."  
  
"There  _is_  one more story…" Gwydion began, but hesitated, pursing his lips together into thin lines.  
  
"What?" asked Arthur, eager.  
  
"They say that the Huntsman carries a hound on the horse with him. The hound comes from the gates of hell, and as long as it rides with them, the spirits of the men live on. But if the hound can be taken, the entire host will crumble into dust."  
  
"But how can the hound be taken from the leader?" asked Arthur.  
  
Gwydion looked troubled. "Through force, it's impossible. But if a man, pure in spirit, offers his body to the hound to feast on, the hound can be tempted from the horse, and the Wild Hunt would be no more."  
  
Arthur's insides turned at the thought.  
  
"A gruesome way to die," murmured Gwydion. "And just a story, after all. There's probably no truth in it." He spread his hands out in defeat.  
  
Arthur found his body was shaking, and it was with great effort that he rose from the chair. "Thank you. We will… do our best."  
  
"Good luck, Arthur." Gwydion embraced him in a rare show of affection. "And if you decide to change your mind and lock yourself in your home on Samhain, I'm sure that no one will blame you."  
  
Arthur had made his decision by the time he walked out of the library. If they met the Hunt on Samhain, and if Gwydion was right and a hunting dog rode with the leader, Arthur would offer himself to the hound.  
  
As for the others, they didn't need to know his intentions.  
  
Over the next few days, as the sky grew darker earlier and the autumn winds turned threatening, a mounting anxiety worked its way into Arthur until his body strained with it. He rarely slept more than an hour at a time, so troubled was he with terrible dreams that became increasingly vivid with each passing night. The nightmares of his father fleeing the Wild Hunt continued, and new ones of a dark hound with red eyes, saliva dripping from sharpened teeth, joined them. When he looked in the mirror now, he discovered his face grown so drawn and pale that he almost resembled Emrys.  
  
The fatigue and fear weighed on him in more ways than one. Arthur hung a sign,  _closed until further notice_  on the front door of his shop and kept the door tightly bolted. He stopped frequenting The Chalice or spending time with his friends except to discuss the details of the Hunt. The only person whose calls he would receive was Idris. Despair at the bitterness of his life, the end coming sooner than he'd ever dreamed, filled him. As he wandered from one room to another in the small house, he felt like he was dead already.  
  
The next evening passed as all of the others, with Arthur hardly noticing whether it was day or night. He'd just started to doze on the living room couch when there was a knock at the door. Arthur bolted upright, startled.  
  
"Who is it?" he called. "Idris?"  
  
There was no response. The silence was broken only by the howling of dogs. Arthur crept over to the window, pulled back the blinds, and peered outside. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he made out a thin figure with a slouched back standing on the stoop. The man turned his head and frowned. It was Emrys.  
  
"Shit," Arthur said. He had no idea what the freakish, unhelpful man wanted at this hour, but Arthur could not put his manners aside and pretend he wasn't home when he was. So Arthur opened the door and invited the man inside.  
  
"Thank you," Emrys said as he looked around the empty road and, seeing that no other person was visible, slipped past Arthur into the room. "May I sit down?"  
  
Arthur gave him a terse smile, thinking that Emrys was obviously going to do what he wanted and didn't need to ask Arthur permission. But instead of lashing out, he just nodded.  
  
"Pardon my saying so, but you look ill," Emrys told him, lowering himself to the edge of the couch, his knobby knees protruding through the thin material of his trousers. He was almost painfully skinny. Arthur wondered why someone as wealthy as Emrys allowed himself to go so ill-dressed and live so uncared for.  
  
"Thanks," Arthur said, smarting from the words. He wasn't in the mood to be dicked around by Emrys, not in his fragile state.  
  
"This time I will have to ask for your forgiveness for intruding. I know it's late, and I haven't been invited."  
  
Arthur nodded, waiting.  
  
"But there's something you need to know. The other day, when you and your friends came to my home, I did not tell you the whole story. I was hoping you would realise the pointlessness of your venture and give it up, but now that I know what you are planning," Emrys paused, wringing his hands, "I had to see you. And beg you to give it up."  
  
"But you knew all along we planned to meet the Hunt in the woods," said Arthur, missing Emrys' point.  
  
"I am not talking about what  _they_  intend," Emrys murmured. "I'm talking about what  _you_  intend, what you are planning to sacrifice."  
  
A cold sense of dread came over his body as he stared at the strange man in his living room. Arthur had told no one about the hound. "How do you know about that? Did Gwydion say something to you?" The sharp edge of his voice pierced the air.  
  
"No one had to tell me," Emrys said, looking at him almost sadly. "I know you."  
  
The more Emrys spoke, the more of a puzzle he became. "I'm sorry, but you  _don't_  know me, and you have no right to come here and tell me what I should or should not do. You didn't even want to help us!"  
  
"Arthur, that night I was seen coming out of the woods after the Hunt had passed… it wasn't the first. I…" Emrys trailed off, helpless to go on. "I would tell you more if I could. But the Hunt, it  _is_  real, and it's beyond your ability to fight."  
  
"Then how did you escape? No one else has." Arthur eyed him as uneasiness took root in his stomach. The clock on the mantelpiece sounded, marking the midnight hour.  
  
"Nothing I can tell you will help you destroy it, I'm sorry," said Emrys.  
  
"Then you can go, and let me face the Hunt without help." Arthur walked to the door and held it open, waiting. He tried not to betray his emotions, but he had begun to seethe with rage at Emrys' reluctance to tell him the truth.  
  
It took Emrys so long to stand up, Arthur wondered if he was going to change his mind and share what he knew. But then he was on his feet, in front of Arthur before he realised what was happening, his face close enough to touch.  
  
"I swore to… never mind," Emrys swallowed hard. "Just take this, and promise me you'll wear it. It's not much, but it may offer you some protection." Emrys placed a round, silver object into his hand, a long leather string trailing through his fingers.  
  
"What if I don't want protection?" Arthur asked, his voice hard.  
  
"Just take it," Emrys said, pressing thin fingers around Arthur's hand until he'd shaped it into a fist. "And maybe you will give up this crazy dream."  
  
Arthur watched him disappear into the darkness. He opened his hand. The circular medallion lay in his palm. A triskelion had been etched into the faded silver, and Arthur wondered what it meant.  
  
\---  
  
THE NEXT EVENING found Arthur eating his first real meal in days at The Chalice. Besides a young couple feeding their daughter and a few old men sitting at the bar, the place was deserted enough that Arthur was able to connect with a sense of calm and normality that he'd forgotten existed. As he speared a potato with his fork, Arthur thought about his father, whose regard for him had been evident despite his sternness. People in the town had found him a difficult, even cruel man, but Arthur knew how much his father had loved Camford, the lengths he had been willing to go to protect it. It was a commitment he had passed on to his son.  
  
"Another pint?"  
  
Arthur looked up to see Bledri looking down at him. Although he was advanced in years, he still had the strength to run the restaurant almost single-handedly.  
  
"Better not. It's getting late, and I want to turn in soon," replied Arthur, unable to summon even a polite smile.  
  
"You look down, lad. Haven't changed your mind, have you?" A worried note inflected Bledri's voice.  
  
"No."  
  
Bledri paused. "I remember speaking with your father before he left. He knew he might not come back from the woods.  _'Bledri,'_  he told me,  _'I have to do this for my son.'_  That was the last thing he said."  
  
Arthur looked up, the sound of his father's voice ripping through him. He'd only had angry things to say to his father when he'd left the house that night; in spite of that, his last words revealed his unwavering commitment to his son. Arthur threw down a few notes on the table and stood up hastily, causing the chair to screech against the floor.  
  
"Thanks, Bledri. I've got to go." The other diners stared as he stalked out of the restaurant.  
  
He exhaled into the cool autumn night, already regretting his outburst. Maybe Bledri was just worried and trying to help, but Arthur wasn't fit to talk to other people civilly. He needed Idris.  
  
A hand gripped his arm. "Wait." Bledri had followed him out, worried.  
  
"I'm sorry—I've just been under a lot of… what is it?" Arthur stopped when he saw the icy expression in Bledri's eyes.  
  
"I wanted to warn you about that man."  
  
"Which man?" Arthur asked, shaking the man's hand off his arm and taking a step back.  
  
"Emrys. He's dangerous."  
  
"How do you mean, dangerous?"  
  
"Doesn't it seem odd to you that he has neither family nor occupation?"  
  
Arthur nodded stiffly. "So he's a wealthy loner. I don't suppose it's a crime."  
  
"Do you know anything about his past? Where his money came from? Why he bought the manor? Does anyone know anything about him?" Bledri cocked an eyebrow.  
  
Arthur had to admit that the man was right, and that it had often troubled him. "No."  
  
"And have you ever noticed," Bledri lowered his voice as a man and a woman passed on the road, laughing, "that he doesn't seem to age?"  
  
Arthur laughed. "That's ridiculous. The man looks like he's on death's doorstep."  
  
"Tell me, how long have you known him? Has he ever altered?"  
  
Arthur thought back across the years and was startled to discovered that yes, what the man was saying was correct. Emrys' poor health gave him a weathered appearance, but in spite of that, Emrys looked  _young_ , like a man in his early 20s, and he'd been that way for as long as Arthur could remember. He raised his eyes to the man sharply.  
  
Seeing that he'd caught Arthur's interest, Bledri moved closer and rushed on. "Some say," he whispered, "that Emrys is not even human, that he's the leader of the Hunt himself, and every Samhain he rides with his troop, and that's why," the man's voice grew conspiratorially low, "he's been seen walking out of the woods the morning after Samhain, fresh from his journey."  
  
"I really do have to go," said Arthur, troubled. He barely noticed the sharp nod Bledri gave him as he disappeared down the road. Without thinking, Arthur shoved a hand in his pocket and stroked the silver amulet, finding comfort in the gesture until he realised he was touching something Emrys had given him. He cursed and withdrew his hand, strangely hot from touching the metal.  
  
As he made his way home, Arthur spotted a figure heading along a road that led to the woods on the outskirts of the town. Curious why anyone would be walking in that direction so late, Arthur followed. As he closed the distance between them, Arthur confirmed what he had suspected: the figure had the skinny, slumped shape and dark hair of Emrys.  
  
Arthur's interest was peaked. Bledri's voice echoed in his mind:  _some say that Emrys is not even human, that he's really the leader of the Hunt_. An image of Emrys, his clothing streaming in the rush of the wind as his horse overtook his victims, shook Arthur. He quickened his pace.  
  
He'd expected it, but it still surprised him when Emrys veered off the road to duck into the shadowy woods. It was true, then. What had struck him about Emrys as merely strange was in fact, as Bledri had suggested, evil. He was headed into the bowels of the forest right now in order to do what heinous act, Arthur couldn't guess.  
  
He could see almost nothing as he followed Emrys into the dark undergrowth, relying on the sound of Emrys' footfalls in the distance to guide him. Tree branches scratched his face and insects invaded his mouth as he walked unsteadily down a well-travelled path. When Emrys broke out into a clearing marked by the old dragon rock, the moonlight, no longer blocked by the densely growing trees, shone down to illuminate him. Arthur maintained distance between them, kneeling down behind the rock to avoid discovery, fearful of what Emrys had come out to meet.  
  
Arthur watched Emrys raise his hands over his head and cry out something unintelligible into the night. A glowing light shown through the forest, and in seeming reply the trees shook and a wolf howled in the distance. Terror ripped through Arthur at what Emrys was summoning, and he ran before he was forced to face it.  
  
Arthur was no longer certain if he should seek out Emrys' advice or kill him, and he had to figure out which it was.

\---

ARTHUR SLEPT AS if in a fever, his body shaking under the bed sheets as visions of Emrys wielding light in the darkened woods assailed him. That the ill-looking man possessed magic seemed impossible, yet he'd seen it with his own eyes. Bledri's words outside The Chalice haunted him, filling him with dread at the possibility that he'd been in the home of the demonic leader of the very Hunt that had killed his father—that he may have sold part of the inheritance with which his father had entrusted him to this… _thing_.  
  
Dawn found him exhausted, but a mix of rage and fear propelled him out of bed. He was yanking on trousers and a shirt long before the morning sounds of the town could be heard. Samhain was the following night; Arthur had no time to spare if he wanted to protect his friends and free Camford from the band of demons that had claimed enough lives already. He packed the small pistol he kept beside the bed.  
  
Instead of taking the more direct route through town, Arthur kept to the path behind his home and wove around Camford, reaching the long-neglected grounds of Uthert Manor unnoticed. Arthur ignored his leg muscles, strained from the fatigue of being forced to work without adequate rest, and patted the gun at his hip to assure himself it was there. Now he needed a lookout spot from where he could watch the house and wait for Emrys to leave. Inside Uthert Manor lay the truth about the Hunt and Emrys' role within it.  
  
Arthur felt like he'd been sitting on the damp ground hidden behind uncut brush for hours when the swoosh of wings overhead caught his attention. A falcon circled above him, then swooped down to the earth. When it rose again, it carried a dead mouse to a rear door of the manor and waited. Emrys appeared.  
  
Emrys held out his hand for the bird's prey, which was speedily delivered. His face remained impassive as he evaluated the offering and cast it to the ground, where the falcon made short work of it. Emrys looked around, his forehead creasing as if searching the landscape for an intruder, but finding none, he began to make his way through the grounds towards the woods from where Arthur had come. The falcon, done with its distasteful meal, followed and perched on his shoulder as he walked.  
  
Arthur shivered.  
  
What further errand Emrys had in the woods eluded him. For now, Arthur would take advantage of his absence to find out exactly who—or what—Emrys was. The door was unlocked when he tried the handle, and Arthur crept cautiously inside the manor. He discovered himself to be in the cellar surrounded by dust-covered bottles of wine that looked old enough to have belonged to the resident before Emrys.  
  
Finding stairs, Arthur made his way up to the main floor, where narrow corridors opened into a maze. Arthur chose the path that seemed most likely to lead to the front of the house. If he could make it back to the grand foyer, he'd be able to remember the path to Emrys' study.  
  
As he travelled between the ancient walls, trailing a finger along the stone that had stood for centuries, Arthur had the distinct sense that he was walking back through time. His forefathers had built this place that was almost a castle, and great men had lived here. He wondered who they had been and what had happened to them. Their stories seemed to have disappeared as if into thin air, lost to history.  
  
He rounded a corner and another choice greeted him. Left, right, or ahead? The path was disorienting, and the view of an unfamiliar tree from a narrow window did nothing to help him discern where he might be in the house. Logic told him to continue onward in the hopes of reaching the front rather than break off into one of the opening corridors that might lead him deeper into the maze instead of out of it, but a feeling strong as memory urged him to the right. He hesitated only a moment before turning on the ball of his foot.  
  
A few steps and the room where they'd first talked with Emrys opened up before him. In the pale morning light without his friends behind him or Emrys there to stoke the fire, the sitting room had turned chilly and inhospitable enough to make Arthur want to scurry back to the safety of his own small home.  
  
His eyes travelled upward to the disturbing tapestry where the fair-haired king and the dark-haired youth stood frozen in time, their swords forever trapped in each other's bodies. Fascinated, Arthur crept closer. All around the two figures which formed the centre of the scene, men's faces twisted in agony as the artist caught them mid-stumble or fallen on the ground, their wounds so detailed and horrifying they resembled figures from a Bosch painting. The light of the sky had been interwoven with red threads to mirror the apocalyptic tone of the events unfolding below. Whatever this was, it represented the end of a kingdom, maybe of a way of life. Narrowing his eyes, Arthur peered at where the king's sword was buried in the youth's body, and discovered the hilt to be decorated with a pattern he recognised from the sword he'd sold Emrys. It was a common design of the time, then. No wonder his father had insisted he guard the swords from so ancient a world, or that Emrys, being perhaps a scholar of this world as the artefacts in the room suggested, had been willing to pay so high a price for the relic.  
  
He had been a bloody fool to sell it, he thought as he drew a finger over the spot in the tapestry where the youth's sword pierced the king. Arthur sickened with the kind of nausea that comes after being punched in the gut. It felt almost good, the way the pain grew more acute and replaced the guilt and fear that had been tearing at him for days. He spread his hand over the battle scene, and the threads turned hot as if burning. Arthur's breath quickened.  
  
His hand drifted over the textured yarn until he reached the edge of the tapestry, where another scene he hadn't noticed before had been sewn. Arthur stared. Yes, it was the same two men from before, a scene within a scene. The tapestry was recording not an isolated moment then, but narrating a story. Here the fair-haired king lay dead in the arms of a man who looked to be a servant, his face twisted in an agony of emotion and his mouth wide open as if screaming. Beside them, the dark-haired youth clutched his bloody stomach with one hand while the other was extended outward, bathed in light. He too was calling out, but the expression on his face was one of determination, not despair. Arthur traced the outline of the servant, trying to imagine what he felt.  
  
 _Save him!_  
  
Arthur staggered back.  _Fuck._  He was going crazy now. Or else there was something truly wrong about this place, about Emrys. Arthur threw himself at Emrys' desk, tossing papers aside and pulling out the contents of drawers, not caring anymore if Emrys returned to discover someone had gone through his things. Books, pens, and gadgets built up as Arthur tore at Emrys' belongings in a frenzy, not entirely sure what he was looking for.  
  
"Come on, you bastard," Arthur muttered with his hand deep in a pile of papers. He took a stack out and slapped it on the desk, moving through each document with grim determination. He picked up a small manila envelope stuffed full. Arthur drew out a passport and Emrys' grim visage peered back at him. Arthur tossed it in frustration. There had to be more than this, something that would give him a clue. He reached back in, this time pulling out three more passports. He frowned. The colours of the passports were different.  _Emrys MacArthur, Ireland_ ,  _Merlin Pendragon, Scotland_ ,  _Merlin Sauvage, France_. In each one was stamped Emrys' face, young and hale. The dates went all the way back to the 1800s.  
  
"What… " Arthur murmured, becoming confused. He sorted through the drawer again, this time coming up with an old daguerreotype. Emrys was dressed in a dark waistcoat and cravat. Arthur dizzied and had to grip the desk for support.  
  
Something in Arthur's mind gave way, and then it all made sense. It was true, then. Impossible, but true. Emrys, who had been alive for centuries, could be no man. He was something else entirely—a ghost, a demon, or even the leader of the Wild Hunt, as Bledri had suggested.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
Arthur heard the voice, deep with surprise, from behind him. He whirled around, pulled out his gun, and shot.  
  
"Arthur!" Emrys gasped, crumbling to the floor.  
  
Blood—real human blood—was pouring out of Emrys' shoulder where the bullet had penetrated.  
  
"Oh my God." Arthur dropped the gun and ran to Emrys' side. The eyes that stared back at him, glassy and confused, were the eyes of a man going into shock. Arthur had been… he'd done the very thing he had sworn he would not; he let the fear and the crazy tales of the Wild Hunt infect him and drive him to drastic actions, and now he had shot a man, had very nearly  _killed_  a man.  
  
Arthur wrestled off his jacket and hastily removed his shirt, tearing it into a long ribbon that he looped around Emrys' shoulder a few times until it covered the wound. Within seconds, blood soaked through.  
  
"I've got to call an ambulance."  
  
Emrys grabbed his wrist, holding him there. "Don't."  
  
"You're bleeding everywhere. If I don't get help… I can't let you die because of my idiocy."  
  
Emrys' grip grew tighter. "Please. I won't have you punished for this, not after…" Emrys' fevered eyes darted around the room, then settled on the tapestry. "I'll be all right, you'll see. I'll heal."  
  
Something about the way Emrys said  _heal_ , like it held a secret meaning shared between the two of them, unnerved him. Across the room, the gun lay smoking with threat. Arthur discovered he was shaking.  
  
"Let me see how bad it is. Have you got a first aid kit?"  
  
"In the loo," Emrys responded with evident relief that Arthur had given up on taking him to the hospital.  
  
Arthur picked up Emrys, the wound soaking through the makeshift bandage so that he felt a hot dampness against his bare skin. Emrys was heavy with the kind of weight a man relinquishes when he's too weak to control his body, but in spite of his fatigue Arthur willed himself to have strength enough to support him. Emrys' face was wedged against his neck, and Arthur could feel the warm blasts of his staggered breathing. In his arms, Emrys felt solid and undeniably human, and a second wave of nausea at what he'd done passed over him. He prayed the wound was not too serious.  
  
"Just hold on," he murmured into Emrys' dark hair.  
  
He stumbled them down the narrow passageways as fluidly as if his mind had recovered a perfect map of the old manor. He took a quick right turn, then a left, and came upon the loo, too frantic with the growing paleness of Emrys' face to wonder at his ease in finding it. He laid Emrys in the bath, tucking a folded towel under his head for a pillow and removing the bandage.  
  
"Stay with me," he coaxed. "Say my name."  
  
"Arthur." Emrys gave him a weak smile and opened his eyes half way. No one had ever said his name like that, as though Emrys was caressing it.  
  
"Yes, I'm Arthur. And how did you meet me?" he went on, trying to keep Emrys talking. With trembling hands, he undid the buttons on Emrys' shirt.  
  
Emrys gave a shadowed laugh. "Ha. You were such a prat then. Always picking on lads who had no chance of besting you. Using that poor sod for target practice until I came along and told you to bugger off. But no, you were the prince, you said; you could do as you pleased."  
  
Arthur touched the back of his hand to Emrys' forehead. It was hot and damp with fever. He was growing delirious. Why had he permitted a dying man to talk him out of calling the hospital? Unable to take off Emrys' shirt without jostling the wounded man too much, Arthur ripped it in half, revealing the dark wound beneath. On Emrys' chest Arthur saw tattooed the strange, triangular pattern of spirals that he remembered from the amulet Emrys had given him.  
  
"Emrys, I'm afraid I have to…"  
  
"Merlin. I'm Merlin."  
  
Arthur hesitated. "Merlin," he began, the name feeling strange in his mouth. "I need to call the hospital."  
  
"No. Wash it," Emrys—Merlin—ordered.  
  
Arthur ran water in the sink until it grew warm, filling an unused container and pouring the water against Merlin's wound, rinsing again and again until the water ran clean. With the dried blood cleared, Arthur could see torn, ragged skin surrounding a hole mercifully smaller than he'd anticipated. It was a wonder that such a small wound could do such damage.  
  
"The bullet's still in there," Arthur said.  
  
"No," Merlin grimaced. "We were standing so close when you shot me. I felt the bullet pass out the other side."  
  
"Bloody hell." Arthur tucked an arm under Merlin's good shoulder and gently hauled him forward so he could see his back, where an ugly exit wound was visible. He washed that too and then disinfected the wounds.  
  
"Do you have any proper bandages?"  
  
"In the cupboard just outside."  
  
"I'll be back in less than a minute. Stay right there." Arthur made a face at himself as he turned.  _Idiot_. Where the hell would Merlin be going? He could barely move thanks to what Arthur had done.  
  
When he returned with a large roll of white cotton, Merlin smiled. Some colour had returned to his face. Arthur knelt down next to the bath and peered at the wound. Strange. It looked even smaller than a few minutes ago, and less blood was leaking as it coagulated. Arthur wrapped several layers of the bandage around Merlin's shoulder and fastened it.  
  
"See? Not so bad," Merlin murmured. "I'm going to be all right."  
  
For the first time, Arthur allowed himself to believe it. He was lucky he'd been startled enough by Merlin's sudden appearance in the sitting room that his aim had been thrown off. A few inches down and… Arthur didn't want to think about it.  
  
Leaving the bloodied remains of their shirts in the bath, Arthur went to pick Merlin up again, but he was brushed off.  
  
"I can do it now." Merlin leaned on his good arm and rose to his feet, Arthur standing nearby, fearing he would fall.  
  
"See?"  
  
He allowed Arthur to help him out of the bath but proceeded to his bedroom on his own, Arthur trailing him by a few steps but wishing he could be closer. Through an unused room whose walls were lined with shelves packed with dusty bottles, they passed into an interior chamber. If this was in fact Merlin's bedroom, it was small—ridiculously small for the master of such a sprawling home—and Arthur wondered why he'd chosen to spend his nights in what looked like servant's quarters.  
  
Distracted by the thought, he was almost too late to catch Merlin when the man began to slide to the floor.  
  
"I told you—you've lost a lot of blood!" Arthur lectured as he broke Merlin's fall, wrapping an arm around his waist. No longer resisting, Merlin allowed himself to be manoeuvred onto the narrow bed.  
  
"Thank you," Merlin murmured.  
  
"Are you comfortable?" Arthur's nerves were still shaken.  
  
Merlin lay with his neck crooked and one leg awkwardly thrown over the blankets. His dishevelled trousers, caked with mud from his morning walk through the woods and stained with blood, looked incongruous with the clean bedding.  
  
"Not really," he replied. Arthur thought he detected a faint note of sarcasm.  
  
"Ha ha, very funny. I realise I'm bollocks as a nurse." Arthur grabbed Merlin's belt, but paused as he became aware of the line he was crossing. "Is this ok?"  
  
Merlin nodded.  
  
Arthur tried not to look as he tugged down Merlin's trousers, but nevertheless he noticed the pants underneath and the soft mound they covered. Merlin followed his lead, avoiding his eyes as he lifted his feet to make it easier for Arthur to slide his trousers all the way off.  
  
"Socks too?" Arthur pulled them free before Merlin could respond. His face heated only slightly as he threw the blankets over Merlin just enough to cover him, letting Merlin do the work of straightening them over his thin frame. Now that he was tucked in with his hair forming a dense mat on the pillow, Merlin looked almost boyish.  
  
"You must be in pain," Arthur said.  
  
Merlin shrugged. "I've endured a lot worse."  
  
"A lot worse than a gun shot? What exactly do you do in your free time?" Arthur asked, trying to lighten the mood. "Are you a secret government agent?" he teased. Merlin did not have to play the hero with him.  
  
"Hmm."  
  
"Come now, Merlin. I feel horrible, honestly. Where do you keep your pain medication?"  
  
Merlin shook his head against the pillow. "No. I dislike modern drugs."  
  
" _Modern_  drugs?" Arthur asked.  
  
Merlin looked away. "I need to be aware of what is happening to me."  
  
Arthur was losing his patience. "You nearly died."  
  
Merlin laughed as if Arthur had told a great joke. "Oh, I was never in any danger of dying."  
  
Arthur mused on what Merlin meant by that and concluded that a man who'd survived the Wild Hunt was probably impressed by little else. Still, they'd both seen how much blood he had lost, how close the bullet had come to being ruinous. He raised an eyebrow.  
  
Merlin looked away and said, a serious note coming into his voice, "I've lived for too long already."  
  
Arthur observed Merlin's collarbones, which protruded from his overly thin chest, and wondered if death would seem sweet to him too if he'd been suffering from illness as long as Merlin had. The thought disturbed him. "Don't be daft. You can't be a day over thirty." In fact, the combination of Merlin's youthful features with his haunted look and ravaged body left Arthur with little clue as to how old Merlin might really be.  
  
"Much older than thirty." Merlin said with a smile. "I feel like I've been alive for centuries."  
  
The words gave Arthur pause. He remembered what he'd discovered in Merlin's desk. "Merlin, who was the man in the passports? In those old photos? He looks just like you. Exactly like you." he asked. "Forgive me for snooping."  
  
Merlin's gaze bounced around the room. "It's ok. The passports did not belong to just one man. How could they? Everyone always said I look just like my ancestors. I'm the last of my family, so I maintain our documents. That's all."  
  
Of course. Arthur was a bleeding idiot. "You must be exhausted. You should rest. I'll stay for awhile in the sitting room until I'm sure you're ok. Call out if you need anything."  
  
"Wait—don't go," said Merlin.  
  
Arthur was about to protest when he discovered that he didn't want to leave Merlin's side, either. "I'll sit in the chair, then?" He pointed to where an uncomfortable-looking upholstered chair, which looked more an antique to be admired in a museum than a piece of household furniture, stood near the small window.  
  
Merlin nodded, appearing satisfied with the arrangement. Still Arthur did not budge from the bedside. Instead he continued gazing at Merlin until it grew awkward between them, and Merlin flushed. Arthur willed himself to move, but the urge to stay right there, as close to Merlin as possible, was more powerful. He felt bound to him as if an invisible net had ensnared them together. The sensation was unfamiliar and, Arthur thought, unwelcome. It felt almost like magic.  
  
"Are you… are you doing something?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.  
  
"Doing what?" Merlin asked.  
  
Arthur relaxed when he saw the evident confusion in Merlin's eyes. Merlin was nothing more than the innocent victim of his violent irrationality, and in spite of just having earned Merlin's forgiveness, Arthur was ready to demonise Merlin a second time in order to justify his own strange feelings.  
  
"I'm sorry, I'm not myself today," Arthur explained. "Tomorrow is Samhain. It was the night my father died last year."  
  
"I know," answered Merlin. "I have often thought of it."  
  
"You have?" Arthur wondered, but Merlin offered no further explanation, and Arthur didn't ask for one. An ache formed inside him that he attributed to his father's memory, grown especially strong now on the eve of his death. Arthur discovered he was absent-mindedly rubbing the blanket covering Merlin and stopped.  
  
At last Merlin cleared his throat. "Do you want to stay here, in the bed with me?"  
  
Arthur startled, wondering how long he had been standing there to have made Merlin ask that. He was humiliating himself. Still, he admitted as he looked down at the shape of Merlin's body under the sheets, he did not want to be anywhere else. And he was exhausted after a week without sleep and the distressing events of the day. Without a word, Arthur discarded his trousers and climbed in beside him. Not wishing to infringe too much, Arthur tried to avoid touching Merlin, but the size of the mattress made that impossible. He felt Merlin's toe against his ankle.  
  
"Are you warm?" Arthur asked the ceiling.  
  
"Yes."  
  
" _Too_  warm then?"  
  
"I'm fine," came the response.  
  
The next few minutes passed in silence compromised only by his own ridiculous breathing. He toyed with the extra material of his pants, but stopped in horror when he realised he was actually touching Merlin's. He shifted onto his side and stared at the wall. He closed his eyes and tried to relax. Behind him, Merlin rustled.  
  
Giving up, Arthur turned to face Merlin and, propping himself up on one elbow, pulled down the sheet enough to look at the bandage surrounding Merlin's bony shoulder. There was no evidence of additional blood loss. Arthur couldn't explain why the wound was healing so well, but he was grateful.  
  
"Feeling better?"  
  
Merlin studied him back. "Much."  
  
He looked so vulnerable. Arthur wondered how someone so frail had escaped the Hunt when no one else ever had. In spite of the evident illness that plagued his body, Merlin was a braver man than anyone had given him credit for. "It must have been horrible. What you've seen." Arthur allowed himself to brush the hair off of Merlin's forehead.  
  
Merlin accepted his ministrations, his eyelids fluttering briefly when Arthur's hand came away. "It was. But the worst was the helplessness. When I saw him coming across the field with the sword, and then how heavy you… that there was nothing I could do to stop him." A pained look flashed across Merlin's face.  
  
"Stop him? So you really have seen the Huntsman, then?"  
  
"Seen him?" Merlin's eyes grew wild. "I can't escape him. Every year it gets worse, like a part of my own soul is lost every time I…"  
  
"How did you get away?" Arthur interrupted. "Please tell me, it's important." Merlin had to know how serious this was, how many lives depended on him sharing what he knew.  
  
Merlin's voice went soft. "Don't try to cheat destiny, Arthur. It was a terrible bargain I made. The price was too dear, even though at moments like these when you come back to me, it all seems worth it."  
  
He was slipping back into that state Arthur had occasionally observed, in which he did not seem to entirely belong to this world. Arthur prayed the fever wasn't taking hold again. "I'm afraid you're raving."  
  
"If only it were that simple." When Merlin smiled sadly up at him, he seemed sane enough. "There's only one thing I can do to protect you. And that's to beg you not to go. Please."  
  
Arthur began to argue, but Merlin pressed his fingers to his lips to silence him. "Please listen to me this time."  
  
Arthur covered Merlin's hand with his own and brought both to his chest. "You're different than I thought," Arthur told him. Merlin barely resembled the freakish, isolated man he and Idris had thought him. His face, while wan and troubled by memories Arthur could only guess at, reflected an openness that Arthur recognised from some other time. He creased his forehead, unsure how to explain something so impossible to Merlin. "You're sweeter. Younger."  
  
Merlin chuckled and broke eye contact, but he didn't withdraw his hand.  
  
"I misjudged you," Arthur whispered, turning Merlin's chin to face him. It had been years since the last time Arthur had been with a man, and that had been nothing more than a frantic roadside exchange, brutish and short, while he travelled on business. Lately the closest he'd come had been Idris' ridiculous teasing. In Camford gay men numbered so few that Arthur had almost ceased to entertain the possibility of finding someone, but the desire written plain in Merlin's eyes made him hope.  
  
Arthur kissed him.  
  
Merlin's mouth, soft and hot against his, sent a jolt through his body, awakening the nerves under his skin that had long been left untended. He caught the scent of something sweet and woodsy in the air, and for a moment Arthur wondered again what sort of undertaking Merlin had trekked into the forest to complete. The question was lost when Merlin, who had lain hesitant at first, roused and latched onto Arthur's kiss. Merlin gripped the muscles of his arms, twisting his fingers around them as if testing their width. He touched Arthur's face with uncertainty, like Arthur was a precious thing he'd once loved and lost and found again. Arthur wrapped his hand over Merlin's where it rested on his cheek and pulled it to his mouth so he could kiss the palm of his hand. He had hurt this man, Arthur reminded himself. He'd hurt this man and now Merlin was accepting him into his bed with a trust he did not deserve. With his finger, he traced the arch of an eyebrow, stroked his cheek. A lingering uneasiness he'd known since his father's death began to dissipate.  
  
Arthur planted kisses behind Merlin's ear. "I feel like I've spent my entire life searching for you," he whispered. It was an odd thing to say, yet when he drew back to gaze at Merlin again, amazed and grateful to hold someone so beautiful—yes,  _beautiful_ —in his arms, it felt strangely true. Merlin looked on the verge of telling him something, but instead his slender fingers pulled Arthur's head down into another kiss, this one deeper than the last.  
  
Merlin's eager responsiveness after Arthur's years of isolation made his adrenaline surge. Arthur pushed himself between Merlin's thighs with more force than he intended, the impulse that caused him to thrust against him almost involuntary. Merlin whimpered.  
  
"Oh, fuck, I'm sorry," Arthur said in horror, lifting his weight off of Merlin. "Did I hurt you?"  
  
Merlin shifted under him. "No. You just caught me off guard." He tried to smile reassuringly, but it was not convincing.  
  
Arthur supported his weight on an elbow and a knee, his body casting a shadow over Merlin's. Beneath him, Merlin's arousal was evident. It was going to be difficult to hold himself back. He stroked the top of Merlin's wounded shoulder. "I'll be gentle," he promised, leaning down to take Merlin's lips between his again, so lightly as to almost not touch. He experienced a moment of déjà vu as if this had all happened before and a memory, impossible but rich in texture, of making love to a wounded Merlin in a dark enclosure filled with hay assailed him. The smell of earth filled his nose.  
  
Arthur lost track of how long they clung to each other, kissing and touching each other until he was dizzy with it. In spite of his arousal, it could be enough to just sleep by Merlin's side. It would have to be. The wound Merlin suffered from did not permit more. With a heavy sigh, Arthur sank onto the bed beside him, withdrawing his leg from where it was entangled with Merlin's. Merlin's face was flushed, his lips red from Arthur's studied attentions.  
  
"Touch me," Merlin whispered. "It's been so long."  
  
Arthur heart pounded at the words. He let the request linger unanswered, relishing the quiet sound of Merlin's breathing, which had gone uneven with desire. He wasn't sure what Merlin was asking for or how much.  
  
"Touch you where?" Arthur murmured, placing a hand on Merlin's throat and rubbing his thumb over it. "Here?"  
  
Arthur felt Merlin's throat rise under his hand as he swallowed, and then the strain of muscles as Merlin shook his head. Arthur slid his hand down from Merlin's throat to cover the tattoo on his chest and discovered that Merlin's heart was beating frantically beneath his ribs.  
  
"Here?"  
  
Merlin didn't answer.  
  
Arthur kissed him again, slow and deep. As he did so, he drew his hand down to rub circles over Merlin's flat belly.  
  
"Is this what you want?" he whispered into Merlin's mouth. Every memory Arthur had retained of past lovers was obliterated by the sound of Merlin's short gasps.  
  
Finally, Arthur closed his hand over the firm length pushing up Merlin's pants and squeezed gently. "This?"  
  
"Yes." Merlin groaned and jerked his hips into Arthur's hand.  
  
Arthur slid Merlin's pants down his thighs and took care to remove them from one leg at a time so as not to jostle him. In the dim afternoon light filtering in from the window, Merlin lay vulnerable and beautiful across the bed. Arthur believed love was a thing that grew slowly between two people until, catching them almost unawares, it flowered and recast in its image everything that had passed before. It was not lust. It was not the ache of the body for the skin of another. Knowing Merlin so little, Arthur thought, love could not be what he felt now as he balanced his weight over him, drawing the blanket up around them both. Merlin watched unresisting as Arthur pushed Merlin's thigh out to the side and shifted into the space he'd created. When Arthur took him in his mouth, Merlin remained silent, guiding Arthur's head with a faint pressure as he rolled his hips forward. He stroked Arthur's face through it, and when Arthur looked up, Merlin's eyes, dark and intent, were devouring him.  
  
The loneliness that Arthur had carried with him until it had become a familiar companion crumbled in what he experienced as an almost painful loss. What he thought he knew of himself as Arthur Pendragon, shopkeeper in a small town in Wales, narrowed into something limited and finite, beyond which he had the barest intuition of worlds he could not begin to apprehend. It frightened him. Merlin, whose hands were gripping him under his shoulders and pulling him up with an implacable urgency, frightened him.  
  
Their breathing had gone uneven and heavy. Words were no longer needed, and Arthur couldn't have spoken if he'd tried. They gazed at each other as Arthur joined them, and when at last he was fully inside, Merlin squeezed his eyes shut, whether from the pain or the intensity Arthur couldn't tell. He held himself there unmoving, savouring the feeling of Merlin tight around him in this moment when this was everything, and everything was this. Arthur took Merlin's mouth in his and licked at his teeth and bit his lips; he buried his face in Merlin's damp neck, which smelled of primrose and clover. Sliding a hand around Merlin's ribcage to brace him, Arthur gently rocked into him while a humming sound, beginning softly, rose in his ears until it drowned out everything else. They would be together now. They would be one. It seemed simple and inevitable, the end point of a long journey Arthur hadn't realised he was making.  
  
After they were both spent, Arthur wrapped himself around Merlin's frail body and dreamed of a king and his sorcerer in a place called Camelot.  
  
\---  
  
WHEN HE WOKE up, Merlin was gone.  
  
From the light outside Arthur knew it was early afternoon. His own shirt having been shredded to ribbons, Arthur located one of Merlin's and pulled it on, hoping Merlin wouldn't mind. It was tight around his chest, but in a reassuring way, as if Merlin was still holding him. On the chair by the window lay Merlin's bandage. Arthur fingered it, amazed by how little blood stained the cotton. Arthur wondered where Merlin could be. He tried not to jump to conclusions as he pulled on his trousers and navigated the labyrinthine passageways of the manor, peering into every room that looked lived in, hoping to see the tall, dark form of the man he'd given himself to the night before. He was every time disappointed. Arthur circled the grounds to see if Merlin, growing bored waiting for him to wake up, had wandered out, but he was not there either. Only the chilly October air and the desolate sounds of crows greeted him. It was Samhain, and he was alone.  
  
An uneasiness settled in his stomach as he returned to the sitting room, where he dropped himself down onto Merlin's chair, resting his chin on his fist. Merlin had probably gone to the shop for food. Neither of them had eaten the day before. How long had he slept? It had been early in the morning when… he remembered nothing after, only the lingering intrusion of the strange dreams that even now were dissolving in the light of day. He must have been exhausted, and no wonder, for anticipation of the Hunt had deprived him of rest for a week. Arthur felt stronger now. It was Merlin, between whose thighs he had come unwound and in whose arms he had felt safe enough to sleep, whom he could thank for that.  
  
So he would jump to no more conclusions. Arthur kindled the fire, sat back down, and waited for Merlin to return.  
  
An hour passed. Then two. Arthur's stomach growled.  
  
When darkness began to fall, Arthur's attention turned inward. He saw himself as a stranger might: a fool sitting alone in another's house, waiting for someone who would never come. He paced the room. Merlin's shirt felt constrictive around his chest. On the desk he noticed a piece of paper marked by an old-fashioned scrawl. Merlin had written him a note.  
  
 _Please forgive me, Arthur. Everything I've done, I've done for you. I fear it's too late for me now, and this Hunt will be my last. Stay away from the woods tonight.  
  
Always yours,  
Merlin_  
  
Arthur could lie to himself no longer. He got up and kicked the desk in anger. "Bastard!" he cursed.  
  
For a moment he thought he might break; the softness of Merlin in his arms, the hope he thought he'd read in his eyes. In contrast lay the years of drudgery in the shop, the dead-end of life in this small town. And the loneliness. Always the crushing loneliness. But then he hardened himself.  
  
"I've been an idiot," he whispered out loud, then reached into his pocket for the amulet Merlin had given him. He turned it around in his fingers and wondered again what the pattern meant that marked both the metal and Merlin's skin. He'd shot Merlin, and Merlin had healed overnight. He wondered why that hadn't struck him as unnatural before. He had allowed himself to be deluded by lust. In selling the Pendragons' heirloom sword to Merlin, Arthur had compromised a promise to his father; in sleeping with Merlin, Arthur had nearly sacrificed the safety of the entire town.  
  
Arthur hurled the amulet into the fire and watched as it turned red with heat. He'd been naïve enough that he would have taken Merlin's cursed totem into the woods with him that evening, but he was free of illusion now. He would go into the woods that night and face Merlin. He would let the hound take him. And then Merlin and his crew of undead hunters would crumble into dust.  
  
\---  
  
THIS FIGHT WAS not destined to be won through violence. Nevertheless, Arthur was loading his most trusted rifle when there was a knock on the door. He clicked the safety into place. The presence of the weapon would reassure Idris and Terrwyn.  
  
"Ready, mate?" Idris asked, looking unusually sombre. Terrwyn stood beside him with her arm intertwined through his. Dark marks were visible on Idris' neck. So, thought Arthur, he wasn't the only one whose fear had driven him to seek solace in another's arms.  
  
"Just about. Come in." Arthur held the door wide and stepped back to allow the pair to pass. "Tea's in the kitchen if you want some."  
  
"A tranquillizer is what I need," Idris muttered, shuffling over to the cupboard loaded with rifles and picking out two. "Well, there's no use in waiting about. Let's be off, then." He handed a rifle to Terrwyn. "We signed up for this and now there's no helping it."  
  
In a rare gesture, Arthur wrapped Terrwyn in his arms and rocked her back and forth. "How are you?" he asked into her scented hair.  
  
She clutched him back. "Ok."  
  
"You still up for this?"  
  
"No." Terrwyn drew pack and smiled thinly. "But I'm doing it for Carys. My sister was brave and if she'd lived, she would have fought to end this plague."  
  
Arthur nodded in understanding. "We'll be ok."  
  
"Let's go over the plan one more time," said Idris, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.  
  
They'd discussed it so often the details poured out of his mouth without Arthur needing to think. "We take cover behind the old rock in the woods and wait. If the marauders are human, we shoot to kill. If the hunters appear, I shoot the Leader, Idris throws Mrs. Gibbs' brew, and Terrwyn speaks the enchantment. If the rifle works, we all open fire; if the magic works, we attack with the reserves. If nothing kills them…" Arthur paused, "we beg God for help and run."  
  
Arthur said his own silent prayer that when he was faced with Merlin, he'd have the nerve to sacrifice himself to the hound.  
  
"Amen," affirmed Idris. "Let's go."  
  
They stepped out of the house in a determined line. The rest of the volunteers were waiting for them at the market and joined their gloomy train. Arthur observed that the townspeople had hung their doors with bloodied game in preparation for the Hunt's arrival. Through the streets, men, women, and children trickled out of their homes to watch solemnly as they passed, an impromptu parade.  _Or a funeral march_ , Arthur thought with resignation. As they walked by The Chalice, Bledri caught Arthur's eye and mouthed the words  _kill Emrys_. Arthur nodded. He would do it. He straightened his back and shifted his rifle higher up on his shoulder.  
  
They left the town behind and stood at the edge of the woods. In the distance, Uthert Manor loomed large and foreboding, dark in the night. It appeared to him different than it had before; he'd always been fascinated by the mystery suggested by its long and unstudied history, but yesterday it had taken on more familiar tones, uncannily transforming into a home almost his own, yet out of sync with his world. Merlin would not be there now. He'd be waiting for them in the wildness of the night beyond.  
  
Arthur thought he might be imagining the slight shift in pressure as they stepped into the woods, the way the brush seemed to close behind them as the woods swallowed them, and he fought to curb his frantic thoughts. If he allowed the fear to claim him now, he might not have the will to do what was necessary. Terrwyn and Idris stood immobile, clutching hands. The others murmured to each other the kind of reassurances that soldiers used when preparing for battle.  
  
"Just need a bit of light." Arthur pulled out his torch and sent the beams bouncing over the trees before them.  
  
Terrwyn's shoulders relaxed an inch, and Idris pulled her forward. They walked without speaking, making their way down the narrow path that led to the clearing just beyond the old dragon rock, where the townspeople believed the Wild Hunt began every year.  
  
It was a clear night, and the moon shone down through the trees, colouring the branches a yellowed blue. The grass was damp as Arthur crouched down behind the old rock, their intrusion disturbing the ground enough that the rich scent of earth wafted up. Outside of the swoosh of wings as an owl flew by, the world was silent. In this place where the trees had stood for centuries untouched by human hands, it felt suddenly to Arthur like the Wild Hunt was something possible, maybe even inevitable.  
  
They waited.  
  
The sound of broken twigs told Arthur that someone else was arriving. He peered over the rock and saw Merlin as he'd never seen him before. Gone was the frail man he'd passed by on the streets of the town, and gone too was the sweet youth he'd held in his arms the night before. This Merlin, whose eyes glowed yellow with reflected moonlight and whose expression of determination bordered on possessed, was unearthly as he drifted into the clearing. In his hand he held the sword Arthur had sold him. Arthur stopped breathing for a moment.  
  
"I'm going to shoot him," Arthur whispered, propping his rifle over the rock. Remembering how little his gunshot had affected Merlin, he knew he couldn't kill the demon, but he might weaken him. He cocked the gun.  
  
"Arthur, wait!" Terrwyn grabbed his arm. "Are you mad? That's Emrys, not the Huntsman!"  
  
"We said no hesitation. He's here for a reason," said Arthur.  
  
"Not yet," cautioned Idris in a hushed voice. "Let's see what he does."  
  
Arthur didn't need to wait. He knew what Merlin was. And yet when he moved to pull the trigger, he found he could not.  
  
"Damn it," Arthur cursed, his body coiled with tension as he followed Merlin with his rifle, knowing he should shoot but unable to carry it out.  
  
"What's he doing?" asked Terrwyn.  
  
Merlin's head was crooked a strange angle and he'd extended one arm. He was murmuring something indecipherable, his voice a sound that began in silence but grew until it filled the clearing. An unnatural light formed in his palm.  
  
It was like the world had been ripped apart. The air shimmered as the trees of the forest disappeared behind what looked like a red field, illuminated by a source of light Arthur could not discern. The field stretched back far into an imperceptible distance. At first Arthur thought he was shaking with fear, but then he realised the vibration was coming from deep in the ground beyond the new space Merlin had opened up.  
  
It was the thunder of hooves.  
  
[](http://asya-ana.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/408/38753)  
  
"Oh fuck." Idris was clutching the rock as if it were an anchor that could save him from drowning. They'd rehearsed their strategy, but they hadn't planned for the way terror would seize them, rooting them helpless to the earth. Arthur glanced at the orange-hued jar of potion on the ground between Idris and Terrwyn. Next to the quaking earth and the unknown demons the portal was birthing, their plans turned futile, ridiculous.  
  
 _I can't save you._  
  
Drained, Merlin had slumped to his knees, his head lolling weakly onto his chest, the sword fallen to the ground beside him.  
  
"Run," Arthur ordered in a hoarse voice.  
  
As if in a dream, Arthur saw the townspeople that had accompanied him dash off into the night. The screams of his own voice came to him with the realisation that he was alone with Idris and Terrwyn. Dust was rising in the space beyond as the Hunt rode out. For a moment Arthur could see nothing but chaos, as if chaos was a thing that had taken on substance and shape. And then on the edge of the line between the worlds, a horse reared on its hind legs and let loose a terrible sound. Riding on its back, the Huntsman, who looked to be a dark-haired youth no older than eighteen, his body encased with armour, raised an arm in triumph and shouted his orders in an ancient tongue.  
  
A hellish legion followed. Their faces were gaunt and wild, with sunken orbs for eyes and blood on their lips. The shade of Arthur's father sat astride a dark horse unseeing, a small girl sitting in front of him. Inhuman forms of men, women, and children carried crossbows and spears, and they screamed with rage for quarry. Hunger radiated from them. They'd hunted for centuries, and yet nothing had ever filled their need. But Arthur would fill it. He'd end this now. The eyes of the hound were upon him.  
  
"No!" Merlin cried out to him from the ground. Their eyes locked together, and Arthur's world narrowed to the man upon whose face a mingling of fear and despair had replaced the vigour he'd seen just a few moments ago. Merlin held up his palm as if he might use his magic to stop Arthur from giving himself to the hound, but Merlin was so weakened from parting the veil that he collapsed onto his hands, breathing heavily.  
  
 _Every year it gets worse, like a part of my own soul is lost every time._  
  
Arthur endured the agony ripping through Merlin as viscerally as if it had been his own. The shouting of the men and the stampede of horses filled their ears. This had all happened before. Through the halls of time Arthur watched Mordred descend upon him with his army. Arthur saw himself drive Excalibur deep through Mordred's body, but not before Mordred had sunk his own blade between Arthur's ribs. And he felt the searing pain of death as Merlin held him, clutching at his hair as if by doing so Merlin could hold him in this world. And then, before their eyes, Mordred shed his humanity like an old and used-up skin. Merlin begged him for Arthur's life.  
  
Oh God,  _Merlin_.  
  
Arthur lunged for him, but Mordred was already upon him. As his horse raced past, Mordred grabbed the material on the back of Merlin's coat and hauled his body onto the horse with him, where Merlin slumped against Mordred's chest.  
  
Arthur remembered now the mouthy boy that had come to him when he was just a fledgling prince. The first time he'd kissed him when they'd gone hunting together in the woods near Camelot. The look on his face when he'd taken a queen.  
  
The press of Merlin's body still lingered on his skin.  
  
Arthur picked up Excalibur. Hearing his challenge above the shouting of his men, Mordred pulled his horse around and smiled.  
  
"Father."  
  
"Give him back," Arthur ordered.  
  
"Your wizard made his decision long ago when he bargained for your life. But after parting the veil every year for centuries, his soul is no longer his own. He stays with us."  
  
The hound that rode with Mordred eyed Arthur, saliva oozing from its jaws. Arthur glanced at Merlin, his face already being transformed by the hunger of the Hunt. Arthur deliberated, and then he turned away from the beast.  
  
Instead, he raised his sword. Merlin had searched out Excalibur and brought it here tonight. For him.  
  
Mordred did not seem threatened by the sword, but instead considered Arthur with a calm expression. "Come now. It's my power that holds these shades together. Will you kill me?" Mordred stroked Merlin's hair in the almost absent-minded way that a master in repose might pet his dog.  
  
Arthur bristled. He thrust his sword into the air in warning, but unable to look away from where Merlin gazed at him from the horse with an unreadable expression in his eyes, Arthur dropped his arm in resignation.  
  
Mordred smiled. He extended his hand toward the host, which parted to release a black stallion, terrifying with fire-lit eyes and exposed teeth. The horse came to Arthur as if it recognised him.  
  
"Ride with us," said Mordred. Whether it was an offer or a command, Arthur couldn't tell.  
  
He considered the irony of this moment in which the son had become the father, Mordred using his power to birth Arthur again and again, and now offering him a perverse eternity, and wondered at this unbending thing he'd created in his first life. They'd all played a role in shaping the Huntsman—he, his sister, Merlin, Uther.  
  
The horse waited with lowered head. From somewhere in the distance, Terrwyn was screaming his name, but it hardly registered to him. Arthur thought about his small shop and the life he'd carved out for himself in Camford, the merry crowd at The Chalice and the cold bed at night. He looked at Merlin, his head covered with soft hair. If he accepted this bargain, Arthur would no longer be the man he now was, for as Merlin had discovered too late, there was a price to be paid.  
  
With trembling hands, Arthur mounted the horse.  
  
As he seated himself, his legs grew painful and heavy, and they welded themselves to the horse's flanks. Arthur tried to shift position and found it to be impossible. Inside him it felt like his very blood was transforming into a molten stream that irradiated him as it coursed through his veins. As if impelled by an ancient impulse, Arthur dug skeletal hands into the beast's hair and snarled.  
  
Mordred drove his horse to the head of the legion. "To the Hunt!"  
  
Arthur's voice joined in the mighty roar that answered Mordred's call. His body pulsing with a hunger that began deep within him and was echoed through the host, Arthur charged forward into the night.


	3. Epilogue

An old woman passed her waning years in the imposing manor in Camford that some said was once the centre of a great kingdom. A few years after its previous owner had disappeared, she had quietly taken residence there, and although she did little to repair the deteriorating walls or care for the overgrown grounds, no one challenged her claim. The people of Camford preferred to forget that the manor existed at all, and the woman gradually faded from their notice along with it.  
  
But one man continued to remember. When The Chalice tavern opened its doors each morning, the man, whose lustrous dark locks had turned to grey but whose body still showed evidence of the strapping man he had been in his youth, would be the first to take up a stool at the bar. When he'd drunk enough pints, he'd begin to weave stories from the threads of the past until his listeners saw the noble fair-haired youth, the wiry man weakened by illness, and the beautiful, tortured woman as vividly as if they had been standing before them.  
  
The more sage of his listeners would pat him on the back and buy him another round before departing the tavern for their daily errands. Still, one or two townspeople, finding themselves with little to do that day or whose ability for work had long passed, would linger to hear the man continue his tale.  
  
With a glassy look in his eyes that bespoke either of his immersion in memory or the effects of alcohol, the man would whisper that every year on the same day the woman, whose long curls whirled in the wind as she cried out an old curse, would draw back the veil between the worlds to bring forth a host of demons. For a moment, she'd catch the briefest glimpse of what she had been waiting for: the small, yellow-haired girl on horseback charging past in a long train of riders.  
  
At the head of the Hunt would ride an armoured youth clutching a hound in his arms and howling into the night. Following closely at his heels would come the ancient king, a crown of burnished gold atop his head and a fearsome sword in his hand, and his sorcerer.

 

 

* * *

_Originally posted on[LJ](http://asya-ana.livejournal.com/47845.html)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Warnings (contains spoilers): Implied main character death (of a sort), minor character death (offscreen), violence, blood, dark themes, unhappily? ever after


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